Дэвид Балдаччи - A Gambling Man [calibre]

“Mr. Drake?” prompted Dash.

Without looking at them, Drake pointed to two empty seats at the table.

As they drew near Archer could see that the bottom of the pool had inlaid aquamarine tile in the shape of a large stallion in full gallop. The rear grounds were as immaculate as the front. In the distance Archer could see a muscular, bare-chested young man shoveling a hole with a large bush standing next to it, presumably waiting to be planted.

Whether Drake was really staring at the ocean or the young man, Archer couldn’t tell for sure. He thought the odds were fifty-fifty.

After they sat and put their hats on the table, Drake said, “Well?” He still had not turned to look at them and didn’t seem inclined to offer them a drink.

Archer took out his notepad and readied his pen.

“This is Archer, my new associate,” said Dash.

“Am I supposed to applaud or do you want to get to the point?”

“Hope there’s no hard feelings after that case I worked involving you.”

“You were professional and honest, Willie” was Drake’s surprising reply, at least to Archer, who was still sizing up the man’s hostile attitude.

Drake continued, “It was your client who was neither of those things. I appreciated how you got him to back off when you realized the truth.”

“Well, thanks for being understanding. Now, we wanted to talk to you about the upcoming election.”

Drake turned his chair around to face them. “Why is it any of your concern?”

Before Dash could answer, a Persian cat ambled out from somewhere and jumped onto Drake’s lap. He absently stroked the animal while he waited for an answer.

“Two people have been recently murdered.”

“What does that have to do with me?” said Drake bluntly.

“Did you know them?”

“Why don’t you tell me who they are and maybe I can answer the question.”

“You don’t know?” said Dash skeptically.

“Enlighten me.”

“Ruby Fraser. She was a singer at Midnight Moods.”

“I’ve never been there. It’s not really my thing, if you get my meaning.”

“So you don’t know her?”

“I thought I just said that.”

“The other victim was Wilson Sheen.”

Drake flinched just a bit, causing the Persian to hiss. “I knew him. We weren’t friends or anything, but I knew him through the usual social circles. And also from the election. He’s running, or he was running, Kemper’s campaign.”

“Do you know of any reason why someone would want to kill him?” asked Dash.

“I just told you I didn’t really know the man. I guess he had enemies, what man doesn’t?”

“So how’s the campaign going?” asked Dash.

“You’ve seen the ads in the paper, and heard the radio spots, I’m sure. And the billboards where Kemper looks off broodingly into the distance, or the future, or maybe he’s gazing at some woman’s ass, who knows? Anyway, they’re everywhere. And he owns a hotel and a country club, and a winery and has a beautiful home and a beautiful wife. And look at me and look at Kemper. Physical appearance shouldn’t matter, but it sure as hell does. Just ask any woman. He’s got that vote wrapped up.”

“Women might just vote on the issues, not someone’s jawline,” noted Archer.

“I used to think that,” said Drake in a tight voice. “But not anymore.”

“So why are you running for mayor?” asked Archer.

Drake ran his gaze over Archer, and Archer didn’t like the expression on the man’s face. He involuntarily glanced over at the bare-chested man as he hefted the bush into the freshly dug hole.

“Oh, so you want to hear my stump speech?”

“Sure, why not?” answered Dash.

Drake took a long—almost luxurious—sip of his martini before setting the glass down and munching on one of the olives he plucked from the drink.

“Bay Town is a place of the haves and have-nots. I’m one of the haves. Sure, I worked hard, but my parents gave me an excellent education and I inherited wealth from them. So when I moved here from the East Coast, I had a lot of advantages. However, with that said, opportunities should be equal and we don’t have that here. Take Sawyer Armstrong as an example.” Drake glanced at Dash, perhaps to see how this provocative statement was playing with him.

“Okay, how so?” asked Dash.

“His initial wealth came from old family money. Now, no one can say that the man is not ambitious and all that. But he had quite the boost because the Armstrongs have owned this town for nearly a century. They own the lion’s share of the wealth and leave the crumbs for just about everyone else. I stand for better working conditions for the poor. More money for education and health care. We have kids dropping out of school and working adult jobs, and no one gives a damn. We treat the Mexicans coming across the border to pick our vegetables and fruit as less than human. That’s wrong. That needs to change.” He paused and looked thoughtfully at his pool. “But in the long run, people like the Armstrongs should thank me for the positions I take.”

“Why is that?” asked Archer.

“Because the have-nots greatly outnumber the haves. But the have-nots will only put up with so much for so long. Then they start scaling the walls of the elites’ estates, and the results will not be pretty. I include myself in that group. I’m not asking the Armstrongs of the world to give up their wealth. I’m asking that others have the full opportunity to earn their share by being fairly compensated for their work. Right now the system is rigged. It makes a laughingstock out of the American dream.”

“You actually sound like FDR,” noted Dash, glancing at Archer.

“Good, be sure to vote,” said Drake.

“Did you know Ben Smalls?” asked Archer.

If Drake was surprised by this segue, he didn’t show it. “Yes. He was a friend, a good friend. We got to know each other when we served on town council together. And then when Ben became mayor, we worked on projects together. The stump speech I just gave? A lot of it came from my discussions with Ben. He was of the same mindset. He is greatly missed.”

“I understand his father was partners with Sawyer Armstrong,” said Archer.

“Andrew Smalls was a good man.”

“But he killed himself,” noted Archer.

Drake’s head dipped. “Yes. That…that was so out of character for Andrew.”

“And do you think his son’s death was just an accident?” asked Archer.

Drake picked up his drink again and took another sip. He set it down and pressed the sleeve of his robe against his moistened lips. “That’s what the police say.”

“Some folks think he might have been murdered,” noted Dash.

“Well, you can’t control what some people might think,” replied Drake.

“Just like that, you dismiss your friend’s death?” said Dash.

“What do you want me to do about it?” Drake shot back.

Archer said, “Well, maybe as mayor you can do something about it, because it doesn’t seem like the police did much of an investigation.”

A small smile escaped Drake’s lips. It was the saddest smile Archer had ever seen.

Drake said, “Maybe I could, in an ideal world. When you find one, let me know.”

“Nothing else you can tell us to help our investigation?” said Dash.

“Excuse me, but who exactly is your client in all of this?”

“That’s confidential.”

“Really? Bay Town is still manageable when it comes to gossip. And my gossip tells me that you’re working for my opponent.”

“And if I told you that finding the truth trumps that?”

“Then I think you’ll be trying to sell me the Golden Gate Bridge next.”

Dash grinned. “You know, just to be brutally honest, I told Archer here that you were pretty much a dishrag without a chance in hell of beating Kemper.”